


Empty Hearts

by Danaknowsitall



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Fighting, More angst, Talking About Stuff, getting drunk, middle name is misery and all that jazz, sorry in advance, strange magic anniversary 2021, trigger warning, wandering around at night time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danaknowsitall/pseuds/Danaknowsitall
Summary: Marianne and Bog have a fight that escalates.Happy Birthday Strange Magic 2021 ❤️🥰❤️🥰 I am so grateful for this movie and this fandom and the amazing things I've found since discovering this little masterpiece!TRIGGER WARNING:Mentions of a recovering addict, temptation of addiction, detailed descriptions of alcohol, thoughts of physical fights, trauma.
Relationships: Bog King/Marianne (Strange Magic)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	Empty Hearts

The phone was silent. The screen black and vacant. The house was like a hollowed drum; echoing and empty and drained of life. There was a mess on the floor, where she threw the plate, and the other side of the room where he chucked the cup, but she sat at the kitchen's table, uncaring of the broken crockery. It didn't matter.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps in the hall rang, and she looked up from the blank screen to the door, her heart in her throat.

_Is he coming back? Please, please, let it be him coming back…_

But it was just the neighbour, and she heard the door next door opening and closing, bringing the stillness back.

Deflated, she returned to biting her thumbnail, though it was already so jagged she felt her lip almost getting cut by the sharp edges. Still, she didn't let go.

What was it even about? How did it get to that point? How did it start?

Something she saw… something so completely unimportant she couldn't even remember. Just the way his face contorted, the words spilling without reckoning, both of them standing nose to nose. Why must she be so goddamn stubborn? So rash and reckless, never checking her words, always looking for a fight. Is this when she'll finally learn that she was just as unlovable as the voices always told her she was?

Just as they always said he will leave one day and never come back. Just as he had now.

Overflowing, the tears spilt down her cheeks, her throat too tight to take a full breath.

Pride and bravado… What use were they, when one felt such crushing loss? There she was, sitting alone again, after fighting with the love of her life about something so stupid she could hardly recall.

And he left. She told him to go, and he actually did.

"No, no, no, no, no…" she moaned out loud, reaching up to grasp handfuls of her soft, short brown hair. "What have I done?"

***

She told him to go.

He knew the day would come, eventually. He thought he may get more time, just a bit more, before she threw him out. Just one more night to have her in his arms, to hold her and feel the darkness fade just once more. To know that even if she never loved him like he loved her that she had enough fondness in her heart to allow him to be around her. Her skin was salvation, her voice the choir, her eyes the blessed sunrise of his days, and every morning he thought of how he would die when the day came.

And now it had come.

What a fool he was—arguing with her when all she needed was reassurance. Her passing comment meant nothing more than a flash thought in her mind. He knew she never filtered her words, and absolutely adored her for it. When she thought something, she said it, and it was comforting to know where he stood with her at all times, to know her mind as well as his own.

Why the hell was tonight the night where he chose to respond as he had?

He looked out of the hall's window, wondering whether the moon was full to explain the unexplainable. It wasn't, and his tense shoulders sagged down again with defeat.

He waited for a while outside the door. Maybe she would follow and stop him? Take it back?

No, she wouldn't. She'd always found apologising incredibly difficult—something to do with her childhood and being forced into painful politeness till she had run away from it all. Till she lived in squalor rather than be a puppet in the hands of people that didn't want her to be who she really was.

And how grateful was he—not for the harsh life she'd had since and before leaving, not for the hardships and pain she'd endured—but for the woman she'd become. So strong and tough and able and fire incarnate, and hell, was she perfect in all her beautiful, magnificent imperfection.

His knees felt weak as he stood, struggling not to lean against the door at his back. If she still watched it, it would be best if she thought he'd done as she asked.

That was the last gift he could give her.

Eventually, the older woman living next door returned to her house and gave him a gimlet eye. She always hated him—ever since he moved in three years before. Something about his appearance rubbed her the wrong way—Likely the scars over his face and tattoos that ran from his neck to his back and arms, words written under the skin of his fingers.

She entered her home, watching him the whole time, even as she closed the door. He curled his lip at her disgusted face, and she hurried, turning the lock when it was done.

He couldn't wait, anymore. Already he fought against himself—trying to come up with reasons to stay, to ask for a second chance, to beg, to shout till he spat blood.

To fight for her—because if not for her, then for whom?

But she didn't want him anymore. And above all, he respected her wishes.

So he left.

***

He seemed shocked at the abrupt request.

"Go?" he said, the furious scowl almost completely vanished, replaced by an expression of disbelief. "Ye want me to go?"

Too stunned by herself to speak, but too proud to take the words back, she nodded once stiffly.

Disbelief turned into a horrified stupor. "Ye want me to go", he repeated, more to himself than to her. "Ye don't want… _me_ …?"

_No, wait… That's not what I meant…_

"I'll… Okay." He took a deep breath, averting his eyes from her blanched face, swaying where he stood by the sink. He grabbed the edge, his knuckles gone white in the tight grip. "Okay," he resolved, voice choked. "I'll… I'll go."

And then he pushed off and staggered to the front door without another word. The quiet sound of the door closing was the knife to cut the strings that held her upright, and she crumbled down, only just barely making it to the chair before her knees buckled.

***

The nighttime streets were full and empty simultaneously, and he walked with a stride too wide apart to be normal, stretching his legs as far as they would reach—running away from the home that was no longer his.

Spring showers turned the asphalt into shining obsidian, and he crossed a road for no reason at all other than to tread in a shallow puddle and fill the deafening silence with the splash.

The fact the murky water wetted his socks mattered not—perhaps it would never matter ever again if his socks were soggy for the rest of his life.

Jesus, when had he become so dramatic, that a break-up would feel like the end of the world? It was just a break-up. He went through them before, hadn't he? So why was it so different, this time?

 _Because she_ was _the world, you dumbass._

And she was—the world, the sounds, the scents and the sights and the sensations and the taste on his tongue and what wouldn't he do just to be so impetuous as to call her his one last time.

Had he known it was the last time, when it was the last time, he would have savoured it much more than he had.

But impetuous he was, and impetuous he remained, and he took what she gave at face value.

Some kind of noise escaped his mouth, and a young man that walked passed him jumped aside as if a wild animal was on the brink of attack.

Well, fuck. Maybe he was, too.

Maybe he ought to go to a bar, find the most assholey-asshole—bonus points to one with either blond hair or green eyes and jackpot if he had both—and pick a fight, smash some noses or break some arms. Maybe some physical pain would release some of the tightness in his chest, would let him swallow the lump in his throat. Maybe a punch to his gut would let him take a whole lungful again, and no one would judge the moisture in his eyes when he would fall to the ground because there was no other way he would lay down to sleep that night.

***

Too quiet. The house was too quiet.

Where were his stomps? The way he pressed his heavy boots to the floor with a resounding thud. So much so, that even when she had her ears full of music or the TV loudly blocking any noise, she felt the vibrations of him coming closer to kiss her or stroke her hair in passing.

Where was his singing? The way he would bellow out a line here and there from a song stuck in his head, or how he hummed out loud when thinking of his work.

Where was the squeak of leather across his broad shoulders as he shrugged and cracked his neck to relieve tension? How the steel chain he wore around his wrist jangled together like wind chimes. Or the metal belt buckle rattling on the floor when he got undressed for bed.

Who knew how much noise a single person could make, and how someone would miss it?

***

"Fuck you, _freak_."

There it was—the window of opportunity to wreak some havoc, cause some chaos, make a mess, ruin a few faces. There was his chance to let it out, unleash the beast inside that wanted to bite and claw and rend apart the world.

He could easily have spat a curse back, combine it with a shove, and start a whole fight. There were a few people he knew around that would back him up against the group of assholey-assholes, so he probably wouldn't die.

Even if he wanted to be very much dead, by that point.

But the will to fight didn't rise. His eyes narrowed at the empty insult, but then they slid away, turning back to the drink in his hand. The man's voice—his hair brown and his eyes a hazel green just different enough from the one he hated most that it didn't raise his hackles instantly—went in through one ear and floated out of the other, unaffecting him entirely.

He got a look from his friend, her eyes widening to saucers at his indifference.

He shook his head, signalling ' _no_ ', and she lowered the glass beer bottle in her hand that was suspended by the edge of the bar. She would have smashed the bottle and cut that fucker to ribbons, had he asked her to.

But no. That was him from before he had something to lose, before he met her.

Even if he didn't have her anymore, the change she inflicted was irreversible.

***

Morning light shined bright and cursed through the kitchen window. The ketchup over the glass panes was dry and made oddly shaped splotches like a Rorschach test.

At some point during the night, she fell asleep with her head on her folded arms, staring at the now brownish-red sauce, seeing images she didn't want to see but was unable to look away from.

He hadn't come back.

***

The alley stank of piss and garbage, and when he put his long nose to his armpit, he didn't exactly smell of roses and petunias, either.

Somehow, he managed to avoid a fight, though not from lack of trying from the dark demon residing in his chest. The beast gnashed its teeth at every offhand glance in his direction, it raked the inside of his ribs whenever there was a push on his back.

But every time it tried, the light blinded the creature back.

 _Her_ light. _Her_ voice.

"Don't do it, babe," she would say, her small hands calloused and soft at the same time, astonishing in their strength as she pulled him away. "Let's go home and eat some ramen or something."

Then she would yank him down to a scathing kiss, and he would forget what he was about to do, he would forget where they were, he would forget to breathe and gasp when she released him only to follow behind her like a duckling.

And man, oh, man, was she the brightest light in the darkest reaches of the very most bottom well of his life. When the days slugged and slurred and smushed into one never-ending moment of misery, the only colour he saw was the gold flecks in her eyes. The only feeling was the warmth she shared with him, her breath becoming his, her skin covering him like some kind of sun made flesh.

Despite being so small, her face so finely crafted like a china doll, she was as hard as nails, underneath it all. She readily took the extra, dragging weight when he could hardly peel himself out of bed. Most times she sensed the fog as it drew on, and would join him, setting aside any plans she had to lay beside him, shining bright and passionate and oh, so loving.

The love that had become everything precious and he lost it, he messed it up, and now the next time the fog came, he wouldn't have the strength to rise again.

_Good. What's the point, anyway?_

There wasn't one. So he found a flattened cardboard box after mumbling his goodbyes to the people in the bar and sat down to lean against a filthy wall, uncaring about everything that didn't live in his thoughts.

***

She didn't bother with a shower.

She didn't bother with brushing her hair, or even breakfast. Washing her face? Nah. She did brush her teeth because her mouth felt dry and gross, and in some deep, secret place in her heart, she didn't want her breath to smell like roadkill just in case he came back and kissed her.

But then, she felt foolish for the passing thought and snarled at herself in the mirror, even as the paste foam ran down her chin.

He wasn't coming back.

Why would he? There was no reward for him there. No gold at the end of a shining, colourful rainbow. He had no future with her because she was trouble and a mess and a disaster, and she would destroy him as she had already destroyed herself.

He deserved better than the walking time-bomb she was. He deserved to be happy, not the half a life she had to offer him. Meltdowns and temper tantrums and screaming matches. He didn't deserve the way she would fly off the handle at him at every imagined insult, every time the voice whispered again that it was better to leave than be left.

Fortunately for him, he had been around long enough to have the illusion she was in any way fixable shatter, and not long enough to develop any lingering sentiments that since she was so broken that he was responsible for her.

And oh. Oh, how broken was she.

Thoughts of fractured plates and smashed glasses and exploding ketchup packets and wet fries in the sink swirled like a blizzard that stabbed her brain on the inside. Outwardly, she thought, one would not see a difference. She always walked like the devil was on her tracks, like she was hunting her demons down.

Scruffed, black boots flashed in and out of her sight at every step to the corner store. The same jeans she wore the day before felt ripe and crinkly around the knees but who gave a fuck about how she looked like when she was so empty inside?

So empty, so hollow—and she needed filling.

***

"Hey, man. You alright?"

A hand grasped his shoulder and shook it, and he reacted abruptly, flinging up fists up to shove away from the presence.

It took a while for his eyes and brain to coordinate enough until sight returned. The rising sun wasn't helping, and neither was the pounding headache. The man that woke him was a garbage man, dressed in the dark overalls and thick gloves. The man blocked much of the light over his face, which he tried to be grateful for, but couldn't summon the emotion.

"Phew. I thought you were dead, for a second," the man wiped the back of his hand over his brow, puffing out his cheeks. "Seriously, I was going to call the cops."

In place of an answer, he grunted, his voice too hoarse and throat too dry to form words.

"You look like shit," the man commented, walking to roll the dumpster with another garbage man.

He was about to open his mouth to say something—whether it was a curse or a dismissal, he may never know—but then the noise of the wheels and the metal rattling, Jesus Christ, the _noise_ …

He rolled over, his stomach instantly compacting itself as agony tore his brain to shreds.

He retched, but nothing came out—nothing beyond what saliva was in his mouth when he flipped over.

The noise stopped, and once again, there was a hand on his shoulder, this time patting gently.

"Bro, go home. You're a mess," the man tsked, handing him a bottle of water.

At the mention of home, he woke fully and remembered where he was and why he was there. He ignored the offered drink and the hand on his back and frantically patted his jacket and jeans for his phone. It had been notably silent all night, and he wondered whether she may have tried to call him; maybe, just maybe, she changed her mind.

The cell was in the inner pocket of his jacket, and he extracted the thing gingerly, afraid of seeing the 'no notification' banner that would drive the notion of how soul-crushingly alone he was even deeper.

The screen was black. He pressed the 'on' button, and the screen remained black. He growled at the device, pressing the button harder and an empty battery image flickered once before vanishing.

" _Fuck_!"

"I got a charger for that," the garbage man said, drawing his attention back to the truck the man stood beside. "I'll plug it in for a few minutes while we're doing the street and you can have it back when there's enough percentage on it."

"Why…" he choked out, the taste of bile rancid in his mouth, and he coughed to clear his throat, wincing as the action juggled his brain in his skull. "Why would ye?"

"I guess I would want someone to help me if I was you." The man shrugged, looking behind him to where his colleagues were hollering at him to get a move on. "What do you say?" The man asked when he turned back.

"I… okay," he agreed, thinking there wasn't much else he could do just then, anyway.

He could walk back to the apartment, but it felt as though his legs were made of hollowed toilet rolls—too weak to hold his weight. He made a move to stand, one hand against the brick wall, and stumbled upright, shoulder leaning on the wall.

The garbage man widened his eyes at the sudden giant before him. He dwarfed the shorter man by almost twenty inches, and the other baulked.

He knew he must have looked a vision, just then, but he wasn't even trying to be frightening. 

_Hideous as hideous does, I guess._

The hand holding the phone was slick with cold, sticky sweat, and he wiped it and the device on his jeans before handing it out. "There."

"Alright, man," said the garbage man, pinching the phone from his hands. "I think ten minutes would be enough. You're gonna be here?"

At that, he looked to the lightening sky, squinting against the burn behind his eyes, pretending the well of liquid was due to the sun and not his broken insides.

"Got nowhere else to go."

***

Back in the house that was no longer a home.

The largest, cheapest bottle of scotch was still in its plastic bag on the kitchen table. She had paced in front of it, glass and ceramic crunching under her feet, becoming more powder than solid between the grinding of thick-soled boots and tiled floor. In her hand was a glass tumbler, the only one left to match the one broken on the floor from the original set.

"Pro: drink till you forget. You haven't had a drink in two years and ten months so it probably won't take much. Just a glass or two, you'll be so out of it, and that will do the trick.

"Con: you haven't had a drink in two years and ten months, and is this worth breaking your sobriety?"

While she waited for a reply that wouldn't come, she realised the echoing silence was the answer.

Yes. To make the silence go away. To make the world go away.

_To make this pain go away._

_Drink. Drink. Drink. You're worth nothing, anyway. What's a few dumb sobriety chips when you're being torn apart? Don't be such a coward. It's just one glass. It's just one glass._

Just one glass.

***

There was a bench by the street, and he sat in it while he waited, bent forward and head bowed. He played with the chain on his wrist, feeling the only singular charm on it—an old family relic made of blackened bronze and a tiny chunk of amber at one end like the head of a staff. He fingered the head, running the sharper corners under his long nails.

She always liked filching the stupid thing. Ordinarily, while he slept, she would disconnect it from the main bracelet and hide somewhere for him to find, only then realising it was gone, to begin with. He would grumble loudly to himself every time he noticed it, biting his lip to hold back a grin at the responding giggle from somewhere across the house where she waited for the discovery.

She always kept him guessing, always made life exciting, always made it worth living.

What was life, after having that? There was nothing to look forward to anymore, other than empty days and emptier nights, silence and loneliness mingling like the world's ugliest creation.

"Here you go."

From where he stared at the ground, the corner of his cellphone appeared in its locked screen. He couldn't look up just then, too focused on the lines and imperfections from the sidewalk bricks. If he concentrated on those tiny, minute dents and cracks, maybe he could keep it together for a while longer.

"Tha— _Ahm_ —Thank you," he coughed out, clearing his throat after taking the offered device.

"No issue. Take this, too." Another item appeared in his line of sight—a new bottle of water—making him raise his eyes up.

The garbage man's face was filled with terrible sympathy that hurt just to see. "I don't know what happened to you, but I hope you find your way again."

Thankfully, the man didn't wait for a reply. He patted him on the back twice and walked away back to the truck, slouched and slumped.

The phone had no new messages that he cared to read or respond to. So, once he drained the bottle of water and found a place to use the bathroom, he began wandering, and once he began wandering, he didn't stop for a long while.

Every now and then a memory winded him, and he had to pause and place a hand over his chest, where his heart gave a painful squeeze. Sometimes he sat down for a bit when he felt a dizzy spin in his head. Once, he even subsided to stroke a street cat that meowed at him from under a bush. It was a pretty black cat, with huge, golden-yellow eyes that made the lump in his throat even bigger.

He spent an embarrassing amount of time kneeling on the grass, cradling the cat to his chest as the little thing purred and laid languid and relaxed in his arms.

Then, there was a few small chirps of kitten meows and the cat twisted, leaping from her perch, curling her tail around his arm like a goodbye. She looked back once before disappearing in the undergrowth.

Her eyes were amber and deep and unfathomable, and he stared unblinkingly for as long as she was there. The kittens that must have been hers squeaked again, and quick as a flash, her black fur melted into the dark of the bush, and he was left alone again.

***

_She told ye to go._

_But, maybe she changed her mind?_

_She doesn't do that, ye twat._

_She could always tell me to leave again._

_Yeah, cause that won't hurt at all, would it?_

_I have to see her._

_Why?_

_I have to see her just one last time._

Just one last time.

***

No one had to know. It could be her little secret; she would keep that, at least. No one had to know she broke her sobriety, cause it wouldn't happen again, would it?

She poured into the glass, liquid gurgling as the dark gold streamed into the empty, waiting vessel.

She stared at it, her mouth suddenly dry at the thought of drinking. She was all at once absolutely parched, and the only relief would be downing this entire cupful of scotch. Then, the dryness would go away again, and the pain would go away, and the world would fade as it used to.

Because for all her bluster she was weak and she knew it. It had been him that encouraged her to quit drinking. It had been him that had held her in the weeks it took to get clean, get the withdrawal symptoms out of her system. He had sat by the toilet with her while she gagged and retched at nothing, fed her soup when she couldn't eat, held water to her lips.

And he was gone; the rock she clung to was gone, and she floated at sea, untethered and drowning, barely bobbing above the waves.

Well, not drowning _yet_. Hopefully soon, though.

The sharp scent of the alcohol stung her nose. It smelled like it always had—smoky and stinking of alcoholic fumes and something woody. Just as she remembered.

What would he say, if he was to see her now?

Disappointed, to be sure. Sad, maybe? Uncaring? Indifferent? Perhaps mad?

Despite herself, an unbidden smile curled on her lips. She would do just about anything if he could come back and just be mad at her.

He never got riled up easily with her, unlike the way she behaved with him—something she was ashamed to admit to herself. Usually, his being mad resulted in her making it up to him in many ways—depending on the general feeling at the time. She knew what his personal favourite was, and took pains to execute it to perfection, each time. There were other ways, but really, when the conclusion turned the one you love into little more than putty under your hands, why do anything else?

Her weak, tremulous smile slipped again.

Where was he? Did he go to his mother's to spend the night? Or one of his friends?

She looked to the table by the door, only then realising he hadn't taken his keys, or his things, or anything other than the jacket he had on when they got back the night before, preparing to have their dinner.

_What if…_

She gasped, her fingers clenched painfully around the full glass. The liquid inside trembled as though an earthquake shook it, and she set the cup down once it began sloshing over, a pain worse than anything up to then attacking her everything.

_What if he went to start a fight? What if he's hurt somewhere right now? Where is he? Oh, dear God, don't let anything happen to him, please…_

Instincts too strong to fight against, something pride and misguided self-preservation had no business even standing against flared and overwhelmed her. She almost tripped over her own two feet as she moves to the door, grabbing his keys and her phone.

She would just make sure he's okay and then let him go to live his life without her as a burden.

***

The living room window was open.

She must have been home, and he felt a flutter of thrill and ache and fear and overwhelming desire rush through him at the thought.

By that window, he'd done things to her, and she'd done things to him. More than once with the curtains open and the lights dimmed down as possible. They just lost themselves in one another, forgotten about the world and everything in it, except each other. Only she existed, her skin, her hair, her voice,

The way her fiery eyes burned his soul away to expose all he hid from everyone else. She unravelled him like a jumper, leaving only the thing that belonged to her in her tracks.

No… No, she hadn't left it, then. She picked it up carefully, cradled it, nurtured it, pressed it to her chest with love and unwavering acceptance—something he never experienced before and never would, again.

_All gone, now._

His sight blurred and he found himself outside the door, palm flat and shaking on the wooden surface of it.

There was nothing but silence coming from the apartment. It was still somewhat early; the clock on his phone said it was about nine-thirty when he checked last, but that was right before seeing the cat. It turned off just after, the battery drained again.

She would likely still be sleeping, and he gulped, visualising her in her morning daze, eyes blinking unsynchronised and her soft sighs and murmurs. The bedspread too thin to hide the curves of her body, the lines he stroked and memorised and etched on his heart like an engraving—something he could never, ever forget.

Maybe he would be able to tell her that before he left for good. He'd never been a materialistic man, often going to places with not much more than the clothes on his back and a pack of essentials. Anything he left behind, she could have, if she wanted. There was a particular leather vest he knew she was partial to and made a note to leave it for her.

After a while waiting for some kind of sound to come from the thin walls of the apartment, his hand dropped to the handle. 

_Perhaps… maybe… if she… it may be possible—_

Eyes closed, bracing against a blow, he turned the knob, finding the door unlocked.

Alarmed and with a trickle of genuine worry and fear filtering through the blinding heart-ache, he swung the door wide open and stepped through.

***

"Where are you, you big idiot?"

Over the steering wheel, she grasped her phone. Her pride, ( _What pride? Fuck that shit. I want him_ now _! Got to get him back…_ ) had been noticeably absent. All her thoughts bent and focused on finding him, running her hands over his body, making sure he was whole and unharmed because—and a sob escaped her lips at the idea—if he got hurt because of her, she just may do something extreme, and that would be very stupid.

Sunlit streets and milling people faded to a blur as the truck made its way around the haunts she knew he liked. Her phone was continuously calling his number, only to be struck by a broken dial each time.

After _who-is-even-counting_ unanswered attempts, she finally had the brilliant idea--genius really, when you thought of it, and she hadn't until then—to call his mother.

She pulled the car to a stop at the next possible location, and her fingers trembled, swiping around till his mother's name popped into existence on the screen. She frantically pressed on it, too panicked to really question what the hell she was going to say to the older woman

"Good morning, Sweetpea!"

Her voice full of grating affection, handing fond pet names out to whoever passed her way, his mother greeted her fondly.

"Uh, morning, I'm just—"

And it was here she began realising the extent of her blunders. How could she tell a person's mother that she essentially kicked the said person out at night and done nothing about it for twelve or more hours?

But, knowing him—he wouldn't have gone to his mother's for the night. In all his gloriously flawed, patient, loving, rough-around-the-edges way, he was perfect. But he was also human, and while not as broken as she, he had his own personal demons. He may have gone to sleep at a friend's house, or maybe even…

"I—I was wondering about that bean stew thing you made the other day."

So, she backpedalled, and expecting the older woman to fill the conversation with her friendly chatter, she only had to give a tiny prompt as a starter.

She tried not to feel agony over the very real possibility this was the last time she'd be hearing her surrogate mother's voice. There were things to do before she fell apart like that—and a nice big bottle of scotch to down.

_Maybe. Right? I'll find him and squeeze him to make sure he's okay and then I'll… I'll…_

"How's my boy doing, then?"

The sudden question, after a few minutes of 'huhs' and 'yeses' was sufficiently distracting that her train of thought was derailed, and with a sharp intake of breath, she replied. "He's… He's okay."

"Oh, I know you're taking good care of him," the voice over the phone crackled, static making it hard to distinguish between words. "Oh, I got another call. Speak later, okay, sweetie?"

"Ye—yeah. Speak later!"

She hung up the phone then, tossing it to the passenger seat and lowering her head to the steering wheel, forcing ragged breath in and out.

" _Where are you_ …?"

***

She wasn't there. The bed was still made as it was the previous morning when he tidied the sheets himself. Her pillow, fragrant from the scent of her lavender shampoo, was cold and hard. The sink and toothbrush showed some use, but the tub was dry as a bone. Her clothes from the day before didn't hang on the small rack at the corner of the room, where she placed them before sleeping, and the dirty laundry basket held no more than it did yesterday.

She wasn't home, and if not for the toothbrush, he would have thought she hadn't been in all night.

This was concerning. Where would she have gone? Why not sleep in the bed? Why not change clothes and shower and do all the small tidy things she liked to do, the things he enjoyed watching her do, fluttering from place to place like a butterfly, occasionally mumbling under her breath as she thought out loud.

He took mere minutes to get ready in the morning, so he made it his ritual to watch her in her routine every day.

Stealthily, of course—so the way she moved was as natural as if he wasn't there. Perhaps not as graceful as it could be, but with a sense of definite purpose and intent.

And now and then her eyes would flash in the soft light like gems, golden and glowing and deep enough to drown him. The bright colour would darken at those times she caught him staring, and she would saunter over for a kiss, hips swaying, hands restless at her front as if there was something there to grasp. If not in a hurry, she may even return to the bed while the shower water warmed, and he would grab her, flip her, hold her; hot water be damned.

He knew her body as well as his own, and by the time steam rolled through the bathroom's doorway in a billowing cloud like smoke over a stage, she would be ready to go wash with him following on her trail.

Mornings had been a beautiful thing.

With the bedroom revealing nothing other than more questions and other things he couldn't bear to dwell on, just then—if he wanted to keep his composure—he moved to the kitchen.

The destruction was worse than he remembered.

Glass and chunks of the ceramic plate were scattered everywhere, more than they should have been, as if someone walked between the broken bits and kicked it all around to create a layer of dusty gravel.

While under his bootheels resided a mess, the sight of the counter was ever more a sucker-punch to the gut.

"Oh, no, no, _no_ …" Three long strides and he reached the bottle, open, drained to just below the neck.

He looked around for a glass, and _there!_ by the sink, a full glass of the alcohol. Had she drunk any of it??

After so long sober, he thought the temptation was mostly gone. Her addiction had lasted years before he met her, yeah, but even then, she managed to keep herself contained to go to work and function until she would get blackout drunk every single evening with at least half a bottle of whisky. 

At first, it was thrilling—he hadn't known about her problem. It was fun and exciting, and every night she was wild and uninhibited. Before he moved in, the weeks before he realised the extent of how much she actually consumed were worry-free and full of new love.

He rediscovered a vital piece of his anatomy—he may even go as far as saying more than one, but for the sake of sentimentality, he would recall just the one in his chest—and finding that the dark, barely lit tunnel he walked in, the paved path of his life was suddenly on fire.

The walls caved in, exposing the brilliance of the dusky sky, purple and orange and dappled. Light and shadow toyed with one another, creating some kind of beautiful tapestry, intermingled and woven together tightly.

_What a sappy wanker I am. Where the fuck is she, though?!_

***

Her lower lip felt swollen and bruised from the nearly constant pressure from her teeth. Her fingernails were almost completely gone too—all bitten and peeled off. The truck idled in the street outside the apartment for a good while, as she pondered going back to both charge her phone that was in the red-zone battery wise, and be faced with the bottle, or keeping the temptation as far away as possible.

Once again, her head rested on the steering wheel, and she argued with herself.

"Pro: get so blackout that you remember pretty much nothing, not your name, not… not his… and this… _this pain_ … goes away…" she muttered, lifting one hand. "Con: you lose your sobriety, let him down, let yourself down, and won't be able to search for him anymore." She lifted the other hand as if holding a set of scales. She didn't bother mentioning the fact her liver had taken a beating from years before and wasn't quite as healed as it could have been to be able to handle all that booze. It didn't seem relevant, just then.

The thing that decided her, in the end, was the vague thought that maybe he had or would return to the apartment. Whether it was for his truck or things or for another round, she didn't really care, as long as he came back at all.

And so, with as much conviction as a death row inmate has when going to the chair, she left the truck and headed back to the house.

***

The fact the glass was full and yet appeared to be untouched was disturbing, but in another way, comforting. She faced the addiction but walked away from it—though why he couldn't have guessed.

The booze beckoned, offering relief, and strained as he felt, he took the suggestion mindlessly. With no more forethought to his empty stomach, the just-barely-vanished hang-over from the abuse the night before, or the fact he had to get packing, he picked up the glass and downed it like a shot.

It burned, as cheap alcohol usually did, and he coughed when the cup turned up empty, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

_There. One less glass to tempt her before I leave._

Of course, if he had thought of it in any depth at all, he would have realised the utter futility of his actions--she could just go and buy another, after all--but just then, he had to make the liquid disappear, and it seemed almost wasteful to pour it down the sink.

_The rats don't need it—but I do._

With the cup suitably disposed of, his head already beginning to swim and— _shit, I've become a such a damn lightweight_ —echoing in the recess of his brain, he grabbed the neck of the bottle and headed to the cold, empty bedroom to grab a few things. 

***

Something wasn't right.

Firstly, she'd realised that in her everlasting stupidity she hadn't locked the door before leaving—nor had she closed the window. It was a goddamned miracle the apartment wasn't broken into and robbed.

Secondly, there was a scent in the air, the sickly sweet, smoky stench of scotch, as if someone walked around with the drink around the house, spreading the smell. It made her stomach clench in one terrifying moment. Maybe there was someone there?

Third, a voice came from the short hallway where the two bedrooms were placed just off the front door.

As silently as she could manage, she stepped closer, pricking her ears to hear better. From her pocket, she pulled out her phone, preparing to call the cops.

"Got… gotta… sstran… magi…c… _HIC_ … gotta… sssst… ange magic…"

The door to the main bedroom was open. She stepped through, heart in her throat, and the first thing she saw were his boots—on the floor, feet rolling from side to side in time with the soft, drunken singing, combined with a hollowed thud of glass on wood.

Relief, sweet and pure, flooded her veins with a shot of adrenalin.

_He's here. He's home._

Tears burned in her eyes as her shoulders sagged. The phone was slipping through her fingers, and she let it drop on the bed, where a big gym bag was half full, messy clothes thrown haphazardly into it, looking as though the one that did it wasn't even paying attention to what he packed.

She breathed out a shaking sigh and stepped blindly to the other side of the bed. If he wanted to go, for good, the least she could do is help him recover before he went. She wouldn't let him leave when he was in this state.

He was splayed on the floor in the same clothes he wore the night before, head against bedside table with bundled up jeans as a pillow. One arm was half under the bed, the other thumped the now empty bottle of scotch on the floor like a drum, the sound resonating. He had his eyes closed, was slurring and looking in pain, with his eyebrows so scrunched up, like that, lines around his mouth where he grimaced.

Usually, when he wore that expression, she would pull him down and kiss the place between his eyes, just to make those two lines disappear. And he would wrap his arms around her, and kiss her forehead back.

She doubted he would even notice her lips on his skin, just then.

But she didn't let it stop her. Shutting the closet door in passing, she walked across the room, pulled like a magnet to the very intoxicated man on the ground, and straddled his waist to examine him and make sure he really was okay.

As soon as her hands touched his face, his eyes opened.

They were bloodshot and heavy-lidded, haggard and unfocused. But they still latched on to hers as soon as he saw her, the blue shining wetly.

"Mari… anne…" he croaked, valiantly trying to rise, his left hand released the bottle while the right bumped under the bed to reach for her. "Ah—Ah drunk all o' it," he slurred, trying for her shoulders but missing by several inches.

"I can see that, Bog," she twisted her mouth into something like a pained smile.

He was too far gone to read more into the expression. Bog grinned sloppily, lips only twitching to one side, in a way that made her stomach turn. This was not at all what she thought would happen.

"Ah didnae wan'… Ah ken ye dinnae wan' meh…" Bog's eyes fell into mere slits, skating around as if he saw double. "But… I will always be there for ye." For the last, his voice cleared, his words exact, as if he was sober and fully aware.

Then his whole body went completely limp, and he passed out in a stupor.

***

"Uuuuuuughhhh…" Bog groaned and regretted it immediately. The vibrations from his own voice shook the very brains in his skull with what felt like tiny knives. Maybe while he slept someone put blender blades in his head, and speaking flipped the switch. As if the headache wasn't enough, soon followed nausea, and he halted the weak writhing in place in favour of staying perfectly still to avoid gagging.

Then he came to feel his mouth again—and he regretted that, too—for all its cottony, dry and sticky feel, and wished he didn't feel so goddamn sick so he could drink something. Maybe water or juice or even poison to kill himself just then sounded good.

Lastly, though it was by no means least, he became aware of a warm body at his back, and the fact he was almost entirely undressed excepting his boxer shorts under the bedspread.

A soft, warm breath brushed over his shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes tighter, disbelief and hope raging war in his chest. Despite his battered body and, _I'm too old for this shit_ , Bog's heart gave a painful squeeze.

Was it possible Marianne… Could she have changed her mind?

A hand—small and achingly familiar touched his waist, and he sighed, relief and lingering distress mingling together at the contact.

She knew he was awake and was letting him know that she knew. He could choose whether to answer the timid, shy request, or whether to ignore it to go back to sleep and hopefully wake up in a few years when his body would be recovered.

Really, it wasn't even a conscious decision.

"Bog—"

Whatever she was about to say, whether it was damnation or salvation, she didn't get to finish.

His head and stomach could go to hell—he turned around, groaning in pain but completing the flip as fast as he could make it, gathering her into his arms with almost a whimper. She returned the embrace, her head settling perfectly under his chin like it was made to be there ( _and it was_ ), a quiet sound in her throat rising like a high-pitched whine—the same sound she made when she was trying not to cry.

As it usually did, the noise undid Bog deeply, and the last three years of the best kind of love and hard-earned trust and unshakable loyalty came back in a rush.

Her rash words meant nothing; for they were nothing. Nothing but words said in anger, reckless and as meaningless as a shadow across the sun.

How could anything hope against the brilliant light of real connection, the way their souls had tangled together to the point he didn't even know where his ended and hers began.

Yes, he was hers; solely and utterly and hopelessly.

And she was his; in the same exact way.

All at once, his insecurities that she would one day tire of him and leave him, that eventually he would lose her and be alone again, that he wasn't worthy, wasn't able to keep her at his side vanished.

Somehow, it took getting pissed out his mind to have this out-of-body experience and conclusion—Marianne was _his_ , and Bog was _hers_. Or maybe it was more accurate to say, he was as a part of her as much as she was of him, and there was nothing more right than them together. Faults and flaws and mistakes were all insignificant in the face of that knowledge. They were nothing but the same poison as the alcohol, and Bog knew he needed to purge himself of those anxieties. 

The night before he should have stayed, tried harder, forced her to listen, or perhaps just told her no—that he won't just go and give up. Marianne had shown him time and time again how she was willing to step over every line he drew for her sake, always ready to take the step over the divide. He ought to have done the same.

The conviction burning in his chest like a star, Bog held Marianne, falling back asleep in peaceful abandon, feeling secure that her love wasn't so easy to chase away.

***

The first time Bog woke up, all he did was to turn around and squeeze the life out of Marianne—not that she complained, but due to the state his body must have been in, she hadn't been able to reciprocate with as much passion as she would have liked—and began muttering all manner of things she didn't fully comprehend.

"Ah luv ye—"She knew this one, and though she's heard it many times before it still sent a thrill through her veins. This time, in particular, felt ever more earnest and fervent with Bog's hoarse voice pulling on the strings of her heart.

"Sun, Marianne… like…" He didn't elaborate further, stilling for a few seconds before the next one came.

"Can't… go…" Marianne felt a pinch in her chest, at that, and clenched her arms around him tighter, earning a gruff sigh from Bog. "No more…"

"Yers… my Marianne…"

"Yours, Bog," she murmured into his chest, gripping the blanket at his back tightly as her eyes welled. "Only ever yours."

He was silent after that, his breathing slowing and deepening into sleep again. Bog kept his hold though, and Marianne was content to stay there. She knew she should have really encouraged him to wake and drink some water, perhaps take a pain killer of some kind (he was no spring chicken to be getting so drunk that way, and nearly forty), but something stopped her.

A voice in her mind whispered that the best she could do for him just then was cuddle him and make him feel safe and loved.

It was the least she could do, after everything she'd put him through.

After Bog passed out on the floor, Marianne hated to admit, she spent a few minutes shedding a few miserable tears about her actions and decisions. It was her fault he left and spent the night who-knew-where (though if she had to guess, she would have assumed a back-alley of some kind judging by the way his clothes smelled), and her fault for getting the whisky and her fault for leaving it as it was.

And her fault for starting the argument, in the first place.

A loud snore from Bog still spreadeagled on the ground, snapped her out of her self-pitying daze. Marianne wiped her face on the edge of her shirt and got to work.

First, she removed all of Bog's clothes off, other than his boxers, and only with the fury of the damned managed to get him in the blessedly low futon bed. One limb at a time, she rolled him in, probably crimping her back in the meantime, until he laid in the middle of the mattress. Fortunately, she'd had enough presence of mind to pull back the covers. Otherwise, she would have almost certainly thrown her back out attempting to shove a far larger Bog around to withdraw the blankets under his form, since she was hardly a youngster herself in her ripe age of thirty-one.

Sighing in relief and sitting on the edge of the bed, Marianne panted, wiping off the sweat on her brow with the back of her hand.

"How are you so damn heavy, but so damn skinny, too?!" she directed the indignant question to Bog's peacefully sleeping figure.

He didn't answer, so she moved on, closing the shutters and dimming the room against the late morning sun. Taking both her phone from her coat and Bog's from his jean's pocket, she set them to charge and on silent, all so no noise and no light would disturb his sleep or cause him pain when he awoke.

Lastly, she filled a tall glass with water, brought two aspirins, settled it all on his bedside table, and prepared to join him.

Marianne washed her face and brushed her hair, and contemplated wearing a pretty nightgown to the bed. As soon as the thought arose, she dismissed it. It didn't really matter what she looked like, just as long as she and he were in the same place. And so, Marianne stripped off everything other than her bra and panties and slid into the sheets behind him.

At first, sleep was the last thing on her mind. Marianne counted Bog's breaths, noting the hitch and sigh and every exhale carefully. He was on his side, facing out, in case he vomited in his sleep. It wasn't an uncommon side-effect to heavy drinking, as Marianne knew very well.

It was strange, considering how very thirsty she felt when considering the booze before—and just how they desire to drink vanished as if non-existent while she laid beside Bog. Seeing him that way and knowing she _wanted_ to become just like that… Well, to be frank, it made Marianne ashamed of herself. If the situation was reversed, and it was Bog in her place, she knew she'd be heartbroken to see him that way and do all she could to stop it from happening.

Eventually, Marianne relaxed her tense body, stretching beside Bog and contemplated what she would say when he woke up. Then he did but was mostly inarticulate, and hours later, he was awake again…

***

"…Marianne?"

The small body in his arms jolted at the quiet call. She shifted, her face popping up from where it was tucked into his chest, looking tired and guilty.

"Hi. I'm s—I didn't mean to fall asleep…" she muttered, her usually clear voice broken with sleep, her heavy-lidded eyes not meeting his. Bog even felt the grip she had on his back loosening, all as if she meant to push away and get out of the bed.

At once terrified at the thought Marianne was about to leave, Bog tightened his slack hold, crushing her to him, bringing his leg to rest between hers. _You're not getting away from me so easily, again._

She _oofed_ , but instead of struggling, Marianne shifted till the little space that remained between their bodies disappeared with a wiggle, and suddenly her warmth was _everywhere_. She may have been petite, but her presence always overtook all of Bog's senses. Over his back, like two patches of the heating pads Marianne got him for back-pain, her spread hands almost seared his skin. Her front moulded to his, and Marianne's bare skin kept steadily exerting warm waves of affection.

"Don't go," Bog croaked out. 

"I wasn't planning to," she mumbled back, nuzzling into his collarbone.

"Good. I wasn't going to let ye go, anyway."

"Oh, is that right?" Bog couldn't see her face from where it was held, but he heard the smile in her voice, anyway. And the challenge.

"Aye. Yer not getting away from me, ye know," he promised her, half teasing and smiling, too.

"Hmm…" Her shoulder relaxed further, and she all but melted into his arms. "That sounds nice," Marianne conceded.

"Yeah?" He let a trickle of deeper meaning flow into the one-worded question.

"Yeah," she replied in the same way, the layers of unspoken communications turning crystal-clear. After three years, Bog knew her secret language, just as she knew his.

"And…"

"And, I'm sorry," Marianne whispered, her thin but muscular arms clenching tighter around his middle. "I'm… I'm so sorry."

Bog pulled back so he could frown down at her. "Yer… yer _sorry_?" Dazed, he curled his lip at the determined expression on her face.

"Yes, I am," she said, frown lines forming around her mouth and between her eyebrows.

"Yer never sorry."

"Well, I am now," she snapped. "Do you accept my apology or not? Or maybe his majesty Mr. King needs me to curtsy?" Marianne quipped with a slight sneer and playful twinkle in her eyes.

Shocked but amused despite himself, Bog laughed at her expression, and she immediately softened, her lips pulling into an unsteady smile. "That won't be necessary, Love. I just… I never heard ye say that."

"Hmm… I guess you're right. My apologies have always been more… _direct_ ," she wriggled in place, her trapped knee moving around areas it had no right to be moving in. "But that's all in the past."

"Curious…" Bog tried to say but ended up coughing around his dry as a bone tongue.

Marianne reacted explosively, flipping them both over, so she straddled his hips, and reached over to the low nightstand where a drink and two white pills were placed. She huffed and returned to her perch over his pelvis, after giving him a charming view of her chest, and handed him the items she grabbed off the side.

"Here, babe. Take this," she ordered, scooting lower down so Bog could rise on his elbow and first take a sip of water, pop the medicine in, and finish the glassful of blessed, fresh, life-giving drink.

Marianne observed him closely, her caramel eyes glowing as they slid around his face and small gestures like they were the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen. It would have made him self-conscious if not for the fact he was doing the same to her—and was aware why she did it, too.

The night before was a close call. Far, far too close of a call, and having that time between them just then felt precious, as if it's the first days all over again, only even more important. Both of them knew precisely what stood to be lost.

"Thank ye, Love," he said as soon as he could, noting the way her frown receded. She'd been worried—very worried.

Marianne tried to smile, but the corners of her lips plopped down again. Bog's head still hurt, but it was nothing compared to the way her expression made him feel.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Bog rose all the way, pulling Marianne close to him, then bringing the blanket to warm her half-naked body.

"No… _No_!" She scoffed, shrugging off the blanket and wrapped her arms around her middle, but didn't push off, at least. She scowled, and looked away, staring at the curtains by the shuttered window.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bog wondered for the first time how he even got to the bed and realised that while he was out in a drunken stupor, she dragged his sorry carcass to the bed, got him out of filthy clothes and closed everything down so his hang-over would be bearable. A suspicion concerning her behaviour started growing in mind, and he tried to confirm whether it was true.

"Are ye an—"

"If you're about to ask whether mad with you, Bog King, I _swear_ I will lose it," she gritted out between her clenched teeth.

"But—"

"But what?" she interjected again, catching his searching gaze with the blazing fury of her own. "You're going to sit there and tell me you love me? That it doesn't matter? You're fine pretending nothing happened?"

"Well, I—"

"I'm not fine pretending nothing happened."

Stunned at the turn of the conversation, Bog floundered for words. "I… I'm so—"

" _Ugh_!" Marianne did push off this time, but only to lay back down on the bed as she was before, arms crossed and facing the other side. She didn't even bother to pull the covers over herself.

Even more confused than before, Bog let a hand slap down on his thigh, making a loud clap sound.

"Well, I don't know what ye want me to say!" he told her helplessly.

"Tell me you hate me. That you don't— _that you won't_ forgive me. Tell me that you won't ever feel the same way about me because what I did was unforgivable and unforgettable," Marianne started in a broken whisper that cut Bog deep. She caught the momentum, her temper flaring. "Tell me I'm the worst because I know I am! And you need to know it too before it's too late for you!"

She turned over again, and he saw that fierce scowl he fell in love with, the passion and overwhelming zeal of righteousness.

But she was wrong, this time. So very wrong.

"I could tell ye that, but I'd be lying."

"You're too much of a sap to see the glaring truth." Marianne's mouth pulled even lower, and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. "I don't know why you even bother," she muttered and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Especially after last night."

"Would it really make ye feel better if I abuse ye and tell ye all sort of nasty things just to hurt ye?" Bog asked, genuinely curious, even as the sight of her distress was painful.

"Yes."

"Ye sure?"

Marianne tucked her hands under her armpits and gave one stiff nod. Her lips wobbled, chin scrunched and eyes streaming tears down her temples, wetting the hair there.

"Hmm…" Bog twisted, shuffling until he sat with his long legs crossed on the bed, facing Marianne. He raised his head till he looked down his nose haughtily, pondering how to word his thoughts.

"What ye did was awful," he began, curling his lip. "I can't believe ye'd tell me to go like that, after everything we've been through together."

Marianne shut her eyed for a few seconds, squeezing the brimming liquid out before opening them again. Bog fought the urge to comfort her and waited for her to refocus on him before continuing.

"And then, not just that—ye go and buy alcohol!" he sneered at her, and scowled deeper, a tiny nod encouraging him on. "Seriously, Marianne! What were ye thinking?"

"I wasn't," she whispered.

"Fucking right, ye weren't," Bog deepened his voice into a growl, and she flinched.

"I know."

"And how ye always say the wrong thing at the wrong time!" he brought his hands up, clawing at the air. "Ye drive me mad, woman! Ye never think about what ye gonna say!"

"I know I don't," Marianne agreed, her small face crumbling further, and Bog couldn't help but think of how beautiful she was.

Red coloured her cheeks and nose, her lashes were dark and wet and clumped together. The gold in her eyes shined through the tears, and her lips were sweet and pink and utterly kissable.

"And… And… I fuckin' love ye for all of it!" he raised his voice even higher, almost shouting in his sincerity. "Yer the best fuckin' thing that's ever happened to me, Marianne, and may God damn me for it, I wouldn't change a thing about ye!"

***

Bog's face, all rage and vehemence, twisted with his words. Marianne felt the sting of truth in her heart, but it was nothing compared to the cuts she had already placed there herself.

He said all the things she already knew, already told herself, but then… then he had to go and spoil it! The painful relief, like lancing an infected wound, of being told what a piece of shit you were when you already knew you were was gone, replaced by warmth and love and forgiveness and acceptance and the feel of his skin on hers, his mouth crushing her lips with a kiss that would have been harsh if not for the way she returned it with as much bruising force as he.

Bog all but pounced, covering her chilled body with his warm one, and she felt gooseflesh spread as hot met cold. He rolled till she was entirely underneath him, and reached blindly back to pull the cover over them both, chasing away the gloomy, icy air with more care than she deserved.

He let out a deep groan that bordered a growl and detached his mouth to speak, his voice ragged and broken, soft accent broadening into a thick brogue with the depth of his feeling.

"Dinnae ever Lea' me. Dinnae ever mak' me go again." Bog kissed along her jaw, his teeth grazing the skin. 

He was rougher than usual, but Marianne felt his urgency echoing within her, bubbling under the surface, like a need, an impulse to reaffirm his presence, to know in every way that he was there and wouldn't just vanish into fantasy. 

And for an insurmountable time, they had succumbed to the unspoken demand. The world faded away, and there was nothing more vital than recovering the precious space between them.

By the time things like hunger and thirst came back to remind them that they had physical bodies, and those bodies needed something to keep living, Bog and Marianne both were sweaty, sticky and starved. Neither had eaten that day, and the fact was making itself more and more evident as time went on.

"Guess we got to eat something," Marianne told Bog after catching her breath, her stomach making angry gurgling sounds, and her head spun with low blood-sugar levels and need of water. 

"Shower first?" He shifted till he could catch her eye from her position on his chest.

"You go ahead. I'll clean up the kitchen first, and make us some food." Marianne pulled up, kissing Bog on the tip of his nose then lips, and slid out of bed.

***

The shower was absolutely fantastic—hot water, cedarwood soap and Marianne's special face scrub that Bog nicked whenever she wasn't around—did wonders to the sore and achy muscles of his back (from sleeping sitting up against a wall) and his feet (from walking for hours in less than suitable shoes). Bog brushed his teeth, trimmed his severely itchy stubble that had recently begun showing more silver than pitch black and got dressed in comfortable house clothes.

Marianne would have prepared something simple, probably breakfast for dinner type meal, and after drinking what felt like gallons while washing, he was more than ready to eat solid food. Bog's stomach growled, protesting its owner's lack of consideration to its current empty state.

Humming as he left the bedroom, following the mouth-watering scent of scrambled eggs and sausages, baked beans and toast, he entered to see Marianne, barefoot on the newly cleaned kitchen floor, wearing her plaid, fleecy dressing gown. Out of the window, which was scrubbed off the ketchup Bog bashfully recalled squishing and making a mess out of, night had begun falling. There was more pink and purple than the deep indigo of sunset, and in front it, by the sink, Marianne sang softly to herself.

He stopped, closing his eyes despite his ravenous hunger, just to listen for a little while to her clear, high voice.

_I'm jealous, I'm overzealous_

_When I'm down, I get real down_

_When I'm high, I don't come down_

_I get angry, baby, believe me_

_I could love you just like that_

_I could leave you just as fast_

_But you don't judge me_

_'Cause if you did, baby, I would judge you too_

_No, you don't judge me,_

_'Cause if you did, baby, I would judge you too_

_'Cause I got issues_

_But you got 'em too_

_So give 'em all to me_

_And I'll give mine to you_

_Bask in the glory_

_Of all our problems_

_'Cause we got the kind of love_

_It takes to solve 'em_

_Yeah, I got issues_

_And one of them is how bad I need you_

_You do shit on purpose_

_You get mad and you break things_

_Feel bad, try to fix things_

_But you're perfect_

_Poorly wired circuit_

_And got hands like an ocean_

_Push you out pull you back in_

_'Cause you don't judge me_

_'Cause if you did, baby, I would judge you too_

_No, you don't judge me,_

_'Cause if you did, baby, I would judge you too_

_'Cause I got issues_

_But you got 'em too_

_So give 'em all to me_

_And I'll give mine to you_

_Bask in the glory_

_Of all our problems_

_'Cause we got the kind of love_

_It takes to solve 'em_

_Yeah, I got issues_

_And one of them is how bad I need you._

Her song ended, but Marianne continued humming the tune under her breath. Bog walked up behind, not bothering to mask his steps. She didn't stop her humming but turned her head, giving him a side-eyed smile he nearly melted to see to acknowledge his entrance.

"Hullo, Love," he bent to whisper in her ear, arms reaching to encircle her.

"Hey, yourself." Marianne dropped her scrubbing sponge and dried her hands, then turned around to return the embrace. "You smell nice."

"Ye smell better."

"Wait… you smell like my exfoliator! The tea tree oil one!" she pulled back, her scowl giving in to a grin. "Just admit you like it. I'll get you your own one."

"Wha… I dinnae use girlie things!" he lied, amused indignation colouring his voice.

"Sure you don't," Marianne accepted with a dubious expression. "Why don't we just eat?"

"I'll let yer outrageous claim slide, just this time," Bog declared, releasing her and moving toward the four-seater round kitchen table.

His nose smelled true, and Bog dug into the eggs like a starving man—which, to be fair, he was. Marianne ate slower, but nearly as much as he did, packing away three eggs, two sausages, and a piece of toast with baked beans on top.

Bog moaned in pleasure at the taste of authentic British cheddar on the eggs, giving Marianne an almost crossed-eyed look of pure thankfulness. She laughed at the silly face, as he intended her to, and nudged him in the ribs, flushing at the wordless compliment.

They ate in companionable silence, only the clock over the door ticking away the time. Bog finished before her and leaned back, hands over his still flat stomach. After a sigh of happiness from sated appetite, he rose and went to prepare tea.

When Bog first met her, Marianne's liquid intake was booze, coffee and booze, and the occasional fruit juice and booze. In the past three years, he'd taught her how to enjoy other beverages—namely, good ol' Scottish blend tea, which was a hard thing to come by in the states. Bog had his father's family ship him a large package whenever he ran low.

The electric kettle filled and bubbling away, Bog pulled out a small teapot—another gift from relatives in Scotland who assumed Americans were woefully unprepared for any kind of proper tea-drinking experience—and the matching tea strainer.

Bog grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and turned around, the offer to make Marianne a cup if she wanted on the tip of his tongue, to find both their plates stacked on the side. Marianne had her hands in her lap, the round, white plastic container of her birth control pills placed in the centre of the table.

Speechless, he gawked, and she released her lower lip from her teeth, running her tongue over the bruised looking skin. Marianne sighed and brought one hand up to pick up the round box.

"I know I said some… bad stuff… yesterday, and I know I hurt your feelings by saying that we'd be awful parents. I had some time to reconsider…" she spoke with precise deliberation, every word carefully pronounced, her eyes flitting from the box she held to Bog. "This isn't just for you. I… You know after my mother died, and all… all that stuff happened with… with you know who, and I swore that… I would never bring a kid into this horrible world, to live only to suffer and to be hurt like I was."

Marianne took a deep, shaky breath, and Bog, stunned silent, didn't even dare to interrupt.

"But I need to reevaluate. I spoke from a place I haven't been in for a long time, and God knows I need to work on that, and I know that… that you'd be an amazing father. You'd protect our children and keep them safe and listen to them, and not let rapey assholes get near enough to hurt them.

"I know I can trust you with that. I'm not saying we're ready, 'cause we're clearly so very _not_ , but I'm saying… Let's _talk_ about it."

Bog swallowed hard. Behind him, the kettle whistled and clicked off as the water reached boiling. He reached for the counter at his back blindly, setting the mugs down without seeing, his eyes fixed on the petite woman at the table.

"Aye. Let's talk."

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a while to finish, but I hope you liked it :)


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